Authors: Wolfgang Koeppen
Night. Night. Night. A bad moon. Summer lightning. Night. Night. Nightlife. There were efforts to get something going in the station area. Lemurs. Lemurs in the bar staring at a scrawny ghost, trying to set a record for nonstop piano playing. The ghost was sitting at an old grand in sweaty socks, and, surrounded by brimming ashtrays and empty Coca-Cola bottles, hammered out tunes that you could hear from any loudspeaker. From time to time a waiter went up to the ghost and, with an apathetic expression, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, or poured Coca-Cola down his gullet. Then the ghost would nod like Death in the puppet theater—an expression of gratitude and solidarity Night. Night. Lemurs. The Rhine valley express flashed past. Flashed on its way to Cologne. At the station in the Café Kranzler, fat men were sitting, singing: "I've got another suitcase in Berlin." They looked across at the fat women and sang: "I miss the old Kurfürstendamm," and the fat women thought: ministerial councillors, government councillors, embassy councillors, and they wiggled fattily in a Berlinerish fashion, pig's liver with apple and onions, and blew their noses Berlinerishly: "Come on, then, little fella, your hands on my flowerpots," and the agents, the travelers, the assistants, thought: Woman like a cloud, just like my old lady at home, phwoarh, thirty smackers, only my old lady will do it next Sunday for free, better get myself a magazine, else I'll forget what a woman looks like. "I'll pass." They played games of skat, and drank their wheat beer with shots out of long straight glasses. Night. Night. Lemurs. Frost-Forestier was going to bed. The Frost-Forestier industry was being put to bed. He exercised on the bars. He stood under the shower. He rubbed his fit, well-muscled body dry. He drank two gulps of cognac out of a brandy balloon. The great wireless was speaking news. All quiet in Moscow. Appeals to the Soviet people. The little wireless screamed: "Dora has diapers. Dora has diapers." On the table lay a photocopy of the interviews with the generals on the Conseil Supérieur des Forces Armées. Mergentheim's telephone number scribbled on the sheet. Also: Ask about Guatemala?? The black paper with the white writing looks like a corpus delicti. Frost-Forestier winds his alarm clock. Its set for half past five. Frost-Forestier's bed is narrow. It is hard. A thin blanket covers Frost-Forestier. Frost-Forestier opens a volume of the works of Frederick the Great. He reads Frederick's dodgy French. He examines an engraving, a picture of the King with the face of a greyhound. Frost-Forestier turns out the light. He falls asleep as on command. The other side of the curtains of generalissimo red, there's a screech owl in the park. Night. An owl screeching. It signifies death.
A dog has barked. Jewish joke. Signifies death. Keetenheuve superstitious.
Night. Night. Lemurs. On the first floor they were choosing the beauty queen of the night. Evening dresses like flapping washroom curtains. A professional Rhinelander, cheery chappie, stood by the mike and asked the ladies to step forward. Giggles. Embarrassed looks at the oiled floor. The professional Rhinelander, cheery chappie, cheeky chappie, gets his way.
Keetenheuve whip in the lower house.
The professional Rhinelander, cheery chappie, cheeky chappie, wending his way among the tables, champagne tables, more-wine-tables, champagne and wine salesmen, took the ladies by the hand, led them on to the smooth parquet of judgment, presented them, exposed them, offered them up, derailed housewives, aborted mothers, robes out of the Domestic Advice Bulletin
classical and plain
, what do I do about semen stains, can you tell me some slimming recipes, Frau Christine always offers the most asinine advice, stiff, awkward, limitlessly conceited movements. Keetenheuve stood in the doorway,
Keetenheuve had customer, bottle baby, won't buy his round, sucks on his pacifier,
he thought of parliament, the second reading of the bill, no bill for beauty contests, Mr. Speaker, Ladies and Gentlemen, a decision of immeasurable consequence, we vote in division, I jump through the wrong door, annoy the party, this here is a mutton jump, little sheep to the right, little sheep to the left, the professional Rhinelander, cheery chappie, cheeky chappie, hup two three, hup two three!, waits for the bill to pass into law. Keetenheuve thought: What are you playing at, you'll offend them all mightily, not one of these geese is worth plucking, but every one of them imagines she's beautiful, thinks she's irresistible, even her stupidity is no match for her vanity, they'll be offended. But the professional Rhinelander, hup two three!, cheeky and cheery, wasn't one to be troubled by such concerns. He chirpily persevered with the work now begun. He gave numbers to his golden gaggle, asked the honored guests, asked the wine buyers, asked the bucks wanting fucks to write down the number of their preference, of their queen, on one of the ballot papers distributed throughout the room. But there wasn't a beauty in the room. They were all charmless. All ugly. They were the ugly daughters of the Rhine. Wagalaweia, dimwits, rejects. Take another look! There was one animally attractive specimen. Meat market. A pink raven. Keetenheuve chose her.
Keetenheuve discharges democratic duty Good citizen Keetenheuve.
She had curved sensuous lips, cow's eyes, unfortunately, Europa
Keetenheuve Jupiter
, a round bust, trim hips, slim legs, and the notion of taking her to bed was not disagreeable. The night is warm. Van de Veldes complete marriage. Darling, what position would you like me to adopt for you?
Keetenheuve Van-de-Velde-husband.
He was curious. What were the odds? Was his favorite in the running? Only one vote for the animally attractive one! She was the last of the bunch. A beanpole with pompadour hair and goose features was chosen; selling point "decent girl with good dowry." Attractiveness not in demand. Bedroom lights dimmed. All cats gray. Fanfare, drumroll, from the band. The professional Rhinelander, cheery chappie, cheeky chappie, presents boxes of sticky candy. Gracious smile from the winner.
Sweet lady
;
hear my song. Keetenheuve
chanteur
on the skids.
The wine buyers applauded and ordered up another bottle; excited bucks wanting fucks. Enterprising reps sought. Diligent workers. Did Keetenheuve work diligently?
Will Keetenheuve learn? No, he will not learn. Is he condemned? Yes
,
he is condemned. All those in favor? All those not in favor?
Night night. Lemurs. A better sort of place, a more distinguished location. François-Poncet hadn't turned up. Was in Paris, in his academician's tails. Palm-embroidered. Was working on a dictionary. Sat in Pétain's chair. She couldn't remember whose arm was embracing her, but it was a socially respectable arm, and the head that went with the arm belonged to a whiskey advertisement, King Simpson Old Kentucky Home American Blend, that inspired trust, and she danced under the summer lightning on a terrace by the Rhine, Sophie Mergentheim from the circulation department of the old
Volksblatt
in Berlin. Rooms in Berlin, rooms over the courtyard at the back, lightless rooms, expropriated, imprisoned, burned, destroyed, she was part of the whipped froth on the pudding, the crème de la crème, reddish sponge base, golden froth, caramelized, egg yolks rubbed in her blond hair. Mergentheim was telephoning. The host discreetly left the room. Diplomat. What's he doing? Eavesdropping discreetly. Tapping into the line. Mergentheim was calling the editor. He was making sure. They were running the article. Copies had reached the station in time. Mergentheim was sweating in his tails. He thought: He's my enemy a man with those views is bound to be my enemy. Night. Night. Lemurs. Keetenheuve descended into the basement. "Bei mir biste scheen"
{18}
—that's what they were playing in the basement. "Bei mir biste de scheenste auf der Welt"—this was catacomb air, but not the catacombs under the cathedral, not Korodin's burial site going back to Frankish-Roman times, this was Keetenheuve's nightspot from the period of the Western alliance, there wasn't any smell of mold or incense for that matter, there was a powerful smell of cigarette smoke, of schnapps, of girls and men, people were dancing a mixture of boogie-woogie and Rhinelanders, and energetically in both cases, this was a place for young people who didn't wear caps and didn't need sabers to get in touch with themselves, this was an
echt
catacomb, a place of concealment underground, a gathering place for youthful opposition to the old beds of the town, but the young opposition was gurgling away like ground water, it made a splash for one night in the fountain, and then it dribbled away in lecture halls, in seminars for grinds, on office chairs and at the lab assistant's workplace. "We're All Going up to Heaven," played the student band. Keetenheuve stood by the bar. He drank three shots of schnapps. He drank them one after the other, knocking them back. He felt old. He wouldn't get to heaven. The young people were spinning and whirling around him. A steaming bubbling yeasty ferment. Bare arms, bare legs. Open shirts. Bare faces. They mingled. They blurred. They sang: "Because we're so good, because we're so good." Keetenheuve thought: You're so good, you'll lie down in the despised beds of your parents, you won't make yourselves any new beds of your own, but maybe by that time the old beds will be burning, maybe you'll be burning as well, maybe you'll be in the ground. There was a throng around the bar, but it didn't concern him. They didn't touch him. He stood off on his own. Elke would have been a link connecting Keetenheuve to the young world. So he didn't venture to ask them to have a drink with him. Neither boy nor girl did he venture to ask to have a drink with him.
Keetenheuve the stone guest.
He took himself off.
Little Keetenheuve doesn't play nicely with others.
Night. Night. Lemurs. Korodin was praying. He was praying in an attic. The room was unfurnished, but for a hassock in front of a crucifix, which was hanging soberly on a whitewashed wall. Korodin was kneeling on the hassock. A candle was burning. Flickering. The attic window was open. The summer lightning had moved nearer, and its flashes lit up the room. Korodin feared the heavenly fire, and in not closing the window, he was mortifying himself. He prayed: I know I am evil; I know my life is not righteous; I know I ought to give everything to the poor; but I know too that to do so would be pointless; no poor man would become rich, no man would be made better by it. Lord, punish me if I'm mistaken! The crucifix, carved by a master out of rosewood, looked in the light of the storm to be doubled over in pain, sick, suffering, rotting. It was an image of torment. The torment remained silent. It gave Korodin no reply. Korodin thought: I ought to go. I ought to give everything away. It's all wrong. It's just a distraction. It's just in the way. I should just go. Go and keep going. Don't know where. I have nowhere to go—and he guessed that it was important not to have anywhere to go. The lack of destination was the real destination. But he feared the lightning. He feared the onset of the rain. He continued to pray. Christ remained mute. Night. Night. Lemurs. Drunks shouting around the station. They shouted: "Infantry!" And they were gone. They shouted: "Give us back our Kaiser Bill!" And they were gone. Boys lurked in doorways, selling themselves. Gone. At the station, haggard pleasure mares ready for the knackers were waiting for a rider. Gone. Thunder and lightning. The rain came down. Keetenheuve stopped a taxi. He had no option. Time to go home. Home to his doll's apartment. Home to the ghetto. Home to the government ghetto, the parliamentarians' ghetto, the ghetto of journos, of officials and secretaries. Thunder and lightning. He opened the French window that went—not very far—from the floor to the low ceiling. The narrow fold-away bed was down, as he'd left it. Unmade. Open books lay around. Papers. The desk was covered with papers, drafts, sketches, half-written speeches, abandoned letters. Keetenheuve's life was a draft. It was a draft for a real life; but Keetenheuve could no longer imagine real life. He couldn't remember what it looked like; and he was certain he would no longer live it. Among the papers was a letter from Elke. Her last letter. Elke had been his chance, his one chance at another life. Maybe. He had lost that chance. Gone. Lightning. Lightning over a grave. He saw the weepy immortelles of the graveyard in the pale flicker of the lightning. He breathed in the smell of moldy, damp yew hedges, the sweet corruption of rotting roses in funereal wreaths. The graveyard wall seemed to flinch in the lightning. Fear and trembling.
Kierkegaard. Nursemaid consolation for intellectuals. Silence. Night.
Keetenheuve timid night bird Keetenheuve night owl at the end of its tether Keetenheuve pathetic wanderer down cemetery avenues, ambassador to Guatemala lemurs accompany him
5
H
E
AWOKE
. H
E
WOKE
EARLY
. H
E
WOKE
FROM
UNQUIET
sleep. He woke from unquiet sleep in the ghetto.
Every ghetto was surrounded by invisible walls and was at the same time open and exposed to view from outside. Keetenheuve thought: The ghettos of Hitler and Himmler, the ghettos of the transports and the victims, the walls and perimeters, the incinerator ovens of Treblinka, the uprising of the Jews in Warsaw, all the camps after the war, all the barracks that housed us, all the Nissen huts, the bunkers, the DPs and the refugees—the government, the parliament, officialdom and underlings, and now we are a foreign body in the sluggish flesh of our capital city.
What he could see were the four walls, the ceiling, door, and window of the tiny room, what he could see—curtains open, blinds up—were the façades of the other houses in the ghetto, jerry-built, flat-roofed, big-windowed, steel-framed tenements. They were a version of the tent towns of traveling circuses and freak shows; run up to be taken down. A secretary was taking a bath. He could hear the water flowing through pipes in the walls. The secretary washed thoroughly, soaped herself, rinsed herself, office dirt was dissolved, flowed down her breasts, sagging, unfortunately, flowed down her belly and thighs, spilled down the drain, tumbled into the underworld, entered the sewage system, the Rhine, the sea. The flushes of the toilets jerked and gushed. The parting of the ways for human and human waste. A loudspeaker wheezed: "One, two, three, and left, one, two, three, and right." A moron was exercising. He was skipping, you could hear it, a heavy body, naked, slap of bare soles on the boards. That was Sedesaum, the human frog. From a second loudspeaker shrilled a choir of children: "Let us sing and jump and shout." The voices of the children sounded drilled, they were bored, the singing was stupid. Frau Pierhelm the MP was listening to the children. Frau Pierhelm lived out of cans. She fixed herself a coffee out of the Nescan, poured a dribble of condensed milk into it, and waited for the radio program
We housewives and the Security Pact.
Frau Pierhelm had recorded the program in Cologne some two weeks previously.